


Messenger

by Bumster



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU: bike messenger, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bicycles, Cycling, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Healing, London, M/M, Slow Build, bike courier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:06:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7231219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bumster/pseuds/Bumster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working as a bicycle messenger in London is not for everyone. The days can be long and conditions less than ideal, it can be lonely, one needs to know every street, alley and shortcut. It can be full of fast paced action and it can be scary. But for those who can take all that, for those few who have the skills and the courage, it is the only way to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

In a flatshare, somewhere in London, John Watson is having a nightmare. There are bright lights in it, screeching wheels, seeing his mate riding to his right; there is the black tarmac shiny and wet after the rain. Then there is the surprised expression of the driver, and then, as usual, he wakes up. He sits up in his narrow bed, sweat beading on his forehead and shadows gathering on the bags under his eyes. He is instantly awake but the dream refuses to leave him for the rest of the night. 

At half five he gives up trying to sleep and starts the day. The sun wouldn’t be up in hours but it never hurts to open the workshop early anyway - there is always the unlucky commuter passing by, delighted to get his puncture fixed instead of having to do it themselves. And besides, he never bothered to buy coffee to the hideous flat he shared with eight other blokes because everything in the food cupboards tended to get missing. At least the shop had a decent coffee maker. 

Grabbing his Brompton from the corner of his tiny room he limps out of the door. The route to the workshop is not long, really, but lately he had tended to take the longer way through the bike paths and by the canals. It takes ages on the busier hours to pedal along with the pedestrians and all other unsure cyclists, but he really did prefer to take the calmer route whenever possible. 

The ride is nice at this hour. The late autumn air is crisp and dry and the fallen leaves give it an earthy smell. Hardly anyone is up and about yet and so John has the roads to himself. A year ago he would have used the opportunity to bomb up and down the street as fast as he could, to get his heart pumping and eyes watering and wind howling in his ears. But that was a year ago and he was not the man who did that anymore. Now he was the man who rode the folding bike cautiously though not without skill. He had, after all, injured his leg and did not want to risk doing that again. He considered himself lucky to be able to ride at all. 

The bike shop is nothing special. It’s not one of those cool places people drop in frequently to chat with the staff and gape at the selection. No, it’s more of a corner shop really, selling the basics for all kinds of cyclists and offering quick servicing (by John, mainly) without appointment. Being situated along one of the Cycle Superhighways it gets along fine with just that. 

The day drags on like all the other days in his life nowadays. There is the steady stream of customers and some unenthusiastic small talk with the guy manning the till. The one whose name John always has to discreetly check from the name tag on his chest. Matt. He’s called Matt. He’d surely remember it next time. 

At lunch John heads out to buy a sandwich from the Tesco at the corner and stroll around the park to get some fresh air. After spending so many years mostly outside it was strange to spend all days indoors, fixing other people’s rides. So strolling around the park had become a bit of a habit. His limp was barely noticeable now that he didn’t have to resort to a cane anymore, but he knew it was still there. It made him feel old, really, and a bit useless. 

Passing a row of benches someone calls him by name. John is not in the mood for a chat and takes two more steps as if not having heard anything, but the guy is insistent. John slows down and turns around to see a man of his age, a bit chubby but rosy cheeked, smiling at him and offering a hand to shake.  
“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bespoke Bikes together”  
“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike,” John replies and shakes his hand. “Hello, hi.“ He’d gotten a bit rubbish at social interaction lately, even though being known as quite the sociable guy earlier. He did not feel like his old self and did not like the new guy he’d become, and did not much anyone else to care too much about the new guy, either.  
Mike grins and says, chuckling “Yeah I know. I got fat!”  
“No, that’s not..” John tries to start but Mike waves his hand to let that go.  
“I heard you got hit! What happened?”  
That was what everyone asked these days and consequently, the one topic John most wanted to avoid. Mike was nice enough chap though so John tried his best not to sound too rude “I got hit. That’s it”  
“Aw mate, must have been quite a blow. I remember you being fastest of us all and able to thread through any jam.” Mike lets the topic drop after that, which is why John lets himself be persuaded to join Mike for a coffee.  
“Are you still at Bespoke Bikes, then” John asks after a slightly too long silence.  
“Managing the bike fitting now. The business seems to be growing year by year, everyone wanting to ride a proper bike these days and not just some random junk from Halfords. I think Strava has a big part in that, all those business types competing against each other on their commute. They don’t know much about proper city racing though and would be lost without their gadgets. God, I hate them!”  
They chuckle and with that John feels a bit better. He always liked to ride with Mike and they had shared some good nights dashing about the city. It all seemed to be past for both of them now, but Mike did not seem so bothered about that. Maybe John should let that go, too, and try to enjoy his calm life with steady work hours.  
“And what about you? Are you still messing or..?” Mike’s question ended halfway through when he remembered the stiff way John was walking when they met  
“No, I can’t do that anymore. I’m now with corner bike as a mech. Otherwise it’s alright but the pay can’t really get me any decent flat - I now share with eight dudes and some of them are messy pigs and one smokes dope all nights through. I’m thinking of moving to Essex somewhere to get some space for myself.”  
“Oh, you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I used to know. You know every alley and shortcut, you love this city!”  
“Yeah, I’m not that John Watson anymore” John huffs.  
Mike sees the lines of worry return to John’s forehead and his face took the same weary expression it had held prior to them laughing together.  
“I dunno - get a better flatshare or something? There’s plenty of them”  
John looks away and sighs “Come one - who’d want me for a flatmate?”  
Mike chuckles “You know, you’re the second person to say that to me today..”  
John’s eyebrows are drawn together and finally he looks a little interested in the conversation. “Who was the first”?

They agree to meet after John finishes his shift.


	2. Two

Stepping back to Bespoke Bikes John is met with a truckload of memories. Even though he still works in a bike shop it is different here, the smell of oils and the rubber of the tyres. It was here where he apprenticed at the same time with Mike, god, how long ago it was? It must be about ten years already. Here, in one of the largest and most avidly serving bike shops they learned to fit bearings, take measures and fit a right sized bike to any customer, to build wheels, to adjust gears, to tell the difference between different types of sports drinks and to build bicycles for all uses. John had stayed two and half years but had eventually grown restless from spending his time indoors. He was a guy of action, of sunshine and of all modes of excitement. And what would have suited him better than becoming a bicycle messenger? 

He had started in a food delivery company where an old school mate of his worked. It was a very basic job, the working times were around lunch and dinner time, with plenty of time to spare in between. The pay was per job, naturally, and so after a while, no matter how much he pushed his pedals, the ends hardly ever met. To kill the time between lunch and dinner, and to fill in the gaps in his wallet, he started to take his tool kit with him and take small repairs jobs on quiet times. He kept it simple - people would call him and he would ride to wherever they were to get the job done. His reputation as a capable chap with quick service, given with plenty of good advice and a winning smile, started to get around, and his number started to spread to all parts of London bringing him enough customers to leave the heavy food box behind and start dashing about the city to service the bikes of the needy. It wasn’t just once or twice when he ended up with the phone number of a dazzled girl (or a bloke, but only a few times and it wasn’t something he liked to share with his mates because they were a bit, you know, harsh), and why wouldn’t he meet them later for a cup coffee or something else hot. Things were going rather nicely for him. 

The shop hadn’t changed that much since he last visited. As usual, the front room was filled with shiny new bikes of all disciplines, the walls covered with team jerseys and pictures of their victorious regulars. John spots Mike near the till as he’s just finishing the sale with his customer and giving some final advice. John moves on to the rear room to see what the shop has for second hands rides. That side of the shop had always held his interest the most and it doesn’t fail him now, either. John is lost in admiring some fine Italian steel when Mike enters and leads him on to the staff only part of the shop. 

In the workrooms a spidery bloke is concentrated on a pile of paper - body measures and drawings of frame geometry it looks like. That never was John’s strong point, calculations and theory, he was more inclined to anything he could mould, tighten, attach or adjust with his hands. The bloke glances them briefly but immediately gets back to his papers. John keeps his eyes on him for a moment longer, in case he was planning to say hi, but as it started to seem apparent that was not to be expected, he let his eyes wander around the room. 

It definitely is more crowded than it used to be, and some high end computers and machinery has been added.   
“Well, a bit different from my day” John says, mostly to himself  
“You have no idea”, Mike starts and goes about explaining the collection of computer screens and wires and a stationary bike. It all had something to do with taking measures, but the more detailed description remained a little unclear to John. Mike’s animated babble was cut short mid sentence however when the man with the papers says, without looking away from his notes  
“Mike, can I borrow your phone? I forgot to top up again”  
“Sorry, it’s by the till.”  
John’s tendency towards being nice and helping a mate out takes over and before even thinking about it, he holds out his phone and offers “Here, you can use mine”. 

The man stops for a second and a half, considering John holding out his Sony, like it was the first time he even notices his presence (which in all likelihood was in fact the case). John arches his brow a bit as in asking whether he’s going to take him up on the offer, and the man comes back to life and gives him the most diminutive of nods. 

“Oh. Ta.” And with that the man goes on, turning away and tapping John’s phone with nimble fingers. It is at this point that John decides the man might be a bit of a dick. Well. Worse things have happened than meeting someone a bit dick in London.

Mike goes on rambling about the curly wires which lead to the computer, and John loses the plot again soon. A laser of sorts seem to be involved in all this. As Mike is getting to a proper detail of fine cleat positioning, the man-who-is-a-bit-dick with the papers, cuts him mid sentence, again, to query “Cab or truck?”

There is a short silence, during which John has no clue what the man is about, and Mike looks mildly amused. John realises the man is looking at him expectantly, so it seems like he should be answering something.   
A dull “Huh?” is what he comes up with.   
“Was it a cab or a truck that hit you”, the man elaborates, now also holding John’s phone for him to take it.   
John reaches for the phone and his gaze goes from the empty screen to Mike, to the man and back to Mike, and finally says “It was a cab. How did you know?”  
The man just smiles slightly to himself and gets back to his papers. John turns to Mike to ask “Did you tell him already?” but Mike just shakes his head denying all involvement.   
The man has turned back to them but continues the conversation like it made any sense to anyone “How do you like the violin?”   
John assumes the question is addressed to him again, and so he comes up with the “Huh?” again.  
The man is now gathering the papers together and looks like he is somewhat pleased with what is scribbled on them.   
“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” John can’t do much but to stare at the obviously lunatic and also a bit dick man, and then look at Mike for some support there. Mike doesn’t offer any and seems to be chuckling by himself silently.   
“Oh, you ... you told him about me?” John attempts again to make sense to it all but Mike denies: “Not a word.” John turns back to the spidery weirdo “..then who said anything about flatmates?”  
The man puts on his cap and and a black, oddly non-descriptive jacket and stuffs his papers to a messenger bag. “I did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now he brings in an old colleague he hasn’t seen in years, clearly recovering from an accident and working in a low paid mechanic job. Could never afford to rent alone. Wasn’t that difficult to connect the dots..”  
“How did you know about the accident?” John presses on. Now he really wanted to know. What on earth was this dude? But he just seems to ignore John’s question and continues packing his stuff.   
“I got my eye on a nice little place next to Regent’s park. Together we might be able to afford it. Meet me there tomorrow evening after your shift, half six?” He’s done packing now and is clearly just about to disappear through the door.  
John just can’t leave this here. This.. this. “Wait, is.. is that it?” The man is halfway out but turns impatiently in the doorway. “Is that what?” John takes a deep breath “We’ve just met and we’re gonna go see a flat together?” “Yes” the man confirms. John can’t but look across to Mike and then at the man and then back at Mike again, but still he is of no help. Just smiling, almost omniscient, like this was all in any way normal. Well, what the hell. “Ah, at least I should know where we meet. And what’s your name, anyway?” The man looks like he is going to say something else first, but then changes his mind. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street. Bye.“ And with that he’s gone. 

John is left behind looking at the door slamming closed. Finally Mike has something to say: “Yeah. He’s always like that.“


	3. Three

The shop is already closed for customers when John steps back to the street. He feels like stepping from one reality to another - from one where nothing makes much sense to the one he actually lives in. Slowly John unfolds his Brompton and steps over the miniature frame. The streets are becoming quieter as most of the commuters have reached their destinations and the more leisurely people are taking over. It should be only about 30 minutes ride to the flatshare behind Bow. John goes his way. 

Arriving to the flat John is relieved to see only two of the flatmates are present and neither of them feels like socialising. Great. He retreats to his single room with the reduced price sandwich he had spotted on the emptying shelf of a Tesco Express (it was from the festive line, first one he had spotted this fall and rather nice really). Suddenly feeling very tired he flops to lay on his back, chomping down the sarnie and checking his social feeds from his mobile. Not much going on there. Suddenly remembering something he becomes curious, rises a little on the bed and starts browsing his mobile’s sent messages. 

The latest one reads:  
Can pick up from 10 Downing at 8 am. At MI6 by 8.10. SH

Ah. Well. Whatever that was about, surely it didn’t have anything to do with the actual British Government. Finishing his sandwich John can’t help musing with the idea that the mysterious and a bit dick potential future flatmate was also a secret agent. That would be something else. 

Eventually the amusement becomes curiosity and John opens up his laptop to search for the name online. Sure enough, with an odd name like that it is easy to get started with the search and John clicks his way through to a simple and minimalistic homepage. It doesn’t have anything else on it but a mobile number, email address and a short introduction text about offering fast, discreet and absolutely confidential courier service in London.


	4. Four

Another dull day at the dull bike shop drags on. John is doing his shift with, um, Matt again and they mostly work in silence. As the days are turning cooler and weather even more unpredictable than it usually is in London, the serious racers are bringing in their proper bikes for after season maintenance and commuters come asking for mudguards and lights and waterproof jackets. Usually John doesn’t mind the monotonous work but after fitting the twentieth pair of sturdy winter tyres on, he can’t help wondering if he should try getting a more interesting job again. He couldn’t do messenger stuff anymore - even though the GP had declared his leg being technically all healed, it was still stiff and painful at times. Pain is difficult, isn’t it, because there’s just no way to measure its existence or level. It just either is or is not. 

Another Marathon Plus snaps snugly on the rim and John straightens his back. It was past five already and the street behind the shop window was growing dark. Working in the shop also meant that he missed most of the daylight in the winter. His mood hasn’t been the greatest during the past year anyway but now he had started to feel even worse. And maybe he was imagining it, but he also seemed to dream about the accident more frequently. That would at least explain the tiredness and worn feeling he had about himself. Not that it mattered, did it, because he didn’t really do much anyway so he could just go straight to bed after work if he wanted to. Quite often he did. 

John pumps up the tyres he’s been working on and does a few final adjustments to the gears. He’s trying to decide whether he should leave a bit early to grab a bite before viewing the apartment but decides against it - most likely the yesterday’s weirdo wouldn’t even show up, or the place would prove to be a total dump and he could go home straight away. At least it was likely to be way over his budget, in that location. And he keeps thinking about the page the guy has - it seems odd. There was something he wasn’t saying, like the potential customers already knew what they wanted and who they wanted it from, and the page was there only to give out the contact info. Why would that be? The more John thinks about it, the more certain he is there was something iffy in it. All this considered, there wasn’t much point going to see the flat in the first place, but he is the kind of bloke who likes to keep his word, even though technically he hadn’t had the chance to agree or disagree to come to this meeting. Well, whatever. 

Upon leaving John doesn’t need to check the route. His time as a messenger has taught him to know the streets of central London so well there’s hardly a place he doesn’t know by heart on zone 1. He has plenty of time to get there, too, despite the rush hour. So he gets on his way calmly and carefully, other cyclists with more sense or urgency zipping past him whenever there is any room. Every now and then John can see a flick of a reflection of himself on a shop window or a bus stop, but they are distorted and most often he passes without paying any attention to them. But when he’s stopped in the red lights on the corner of Theobald’s and Boswell, the light take ages to change and he ends up staring at himself in a darkened glass of a chip shop, and even more than usually these days, he does not know how he ended up like that. As the light changes he pushes on but the picture keeps haunting him. 

It’s not that he looks especially bad. He is still in quite decent shape: even though he isn’t as active as he used to be, most of the muscle was still there. He just doesn’t have much use for it nowdays. Of course he still has his dark blue eyes and sandy blonde hair, but none of the heart melting smile he so freely used to give to his customers has been seen in ages. Somehow he just ended up being some kind of a deflated, crumbly version of himself. He isn’t old, no, not even thirty yet but he feels like he has already retired from his life. 

It isn’t just how he felt about himself which had changed, he also feels very different about London. Earlier he knew and loved every street and curve and even the piss stained alleys glistening with broken glass. He did not just work in London, he felt like working with it. Even when the traffic was maddening and the fumes strangled his throat, they were in it together. Now, even though he still rides his bike there and works in the city, it feels more distant, like a staged, dead skeleton of a city with distant memories of happier times. It’s like he knew the city in theory but had no first hand experience in it. 

Crossing Regent street John Watson idly thinks about taking all his pain medicines at once when he would get back to the flat. He pushes the idea to the background but doesn’t abandon it entirely. 

Finally he reaches Baker street and rides along towards Regent’s Park. It’s not one of the busier shopping streets in the area but there is the odd off license and right next to the house number 221 there is a cosy little cafe, a greasy spoon kind of place. He is just folding up the bike when a lean dark figure skids to a stop next to him. Light from the cafe spills to the street just enough to make it possible for John to recognise the cyclist to be Mike’s odd friend. The guy nods at John and takes off his helmet and the cap underneath. He came to the spot with considerable speed but John notices he’s not at all out of breath, and something makes him wonder whether he was waiting somewhere nearby to be able to make an impression. He couldn’t be that vain, could he?

“Ah, Holmes, was it?” John says, trying to pretend he hasn’t spent the previous night trying to search for more info online about the fellow.   
“Sherlock, please. And I know a thing or two about you but didn’t catch your name yesterday..”   
“It’s John. John Watson.”  
“Right.”  
They stand there for a moment in silence, both seeming to wait for the other to make a move. John takes another look at the street and the buildings around them, “Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive. I hope you realise I really am a bit broke.”  
Sherlock gives him the smallest of shrugs, “Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. She’s an older lady and I’ve been helping her out with some errands she doesn’t have the connections for.“  
This makes the guy seem a bit nicer to John and he starts to relax a little. Maybe this could work out after all. “Right, carrying her groceries and that sort of stuff?”  
“Kind of. I help her buy some good quality weed so that she doesn’t need to get it directly from a dealer. They can be a difficult bunch for someone like her.” He smiles at John and the door opens, revealing a tiny little lady who is smiling brightly at Sherlock. John only has the time to conclude the man’s courier business must be drugs, before the little lady interrupts his train of thought with her cheery babble. 

“Hullo Sherlock my dear, haven’t seen you in ages!” Sherlock gives her a hug before stepping back and introducing John to the good lady. Her handshake is warm and genial and John is somehow a bit relieved that she does not indeed need to buy her drugs from the street. Mrs. Hudson beckons them in and John grabs the Brompton. He holds the door for Sherlock who also grabs his bike and lifts it to the hallway with ease. Bike dangling on his shoulder he starts ascending the stairs while talking to John “There are seventeen steps to the flat, but you can still carry a bike in easily. There’s plenty of room to turn here. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t like them left downstairs, she considers them a safety hazard in case of fire.” 

He’s almost all the way up already when John takes a deep breath to collect his courage and takes the first step up the stairs. After the accident especially steps had been difficult for him, and now he was even carrying extra weight. Sherlock has turned to wait for him however and he doesn’t want to seem weak under the impatient gaze. So he takes a step and then another step and taking a good grip on the rail he slowly climbs up. Sherlock has already entered the upstair apartment and left his bike leaning on the living room wall. John follows him in and takes a look around. 

The flat is one of the old style ones, with high ceilings and drafty windows and a fireplace and colourful tapestry and all the things that make places feel like home to John. It clearly hasn’t been updated to the latest energy saving apparels or convenient hard floors, but it isn’t too worn either. The furniture fits the place so well it must have been there quite a while already, making itself at home while the occupants changed over the years. There is an old fashioned coach and two slightly newer armchairs which in all honesty look quite tempting to John. All this looks otherwise great, but it seems to be buried under a huge amount of very random looking bags, boxes and unpackaged .. well, junk. John wonders if the previous tenant left in a hurry.

“Well, this could be very nice” John muses and peeks to the kitchen. A bit outdated but everything necessary seems to be in place.   
Sherlock is pacing in the living room, “Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely” He turns towards John, who is also just turning towards him, and they both start at the same time “So I went ahead and moved in already..oh”, “Just as soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out..Oh ”   
Both men stop midway their sentences as they realise what the other is saying. There is a strong, embarrassed silence in the flat while the both of them concentrate looking as awkward as possible. John takes another look around the living room and at the piles of paper towering on the kitchen surfaces, “So all of this is.. yours?”  
Sherlock gets back to movement and starts opening and closing boxes at random. “Well, obviously I can try to tidy up a little.” He kicks another box under the sofa and moves a wet bundle of cloth from one of the armchairs to the other. 

Mrs Hudson has followed them into the room. She presses her hands together and gives John the warmest little smile he has seen in a few weeks. “So, John, what do you think? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”   
The already familiar feeling of not quite knowing what is happening around him returns and despite Mrs. Hudson’s friendliness he can’t help the annoyance taking over him. “Of course we’ll be needing two.”  
Mrs. Hudson gives him a knowing smile, “Of course sweetie, and that’s none of my business obviously”.   
John glances at Sherlock but he is completely absorbed in digging through yet another box of junk. Now Mrs. Hudson seems to see all the stuff, too, and she huffs “Oh, Sherlock. The mess you’ve made.”   
She goes into the kitchen and starts tidying up, and John walks over to one of the two armchairs, the one without the wet pile of cloth in it, plumps up a cushion on the chair and then drops heavily down into it. He looks across to Sherlock who has now straightened himself again and seems to be sorting over some papers. John is thinking over the situation. The guy is obviously a weirdo, but the old lady seems lovely and her being friendly with Sherlock makes him seem at least not very dangerous type of weird. Currently he has eight weirdos he was living with and that’s seven more than this one here. John does the math and decides he might be better off here. 

While Sherlock rummages through his stuff, John has a good chance to take a better look at him. He seems to be in his mid twenties, some remnants of gangliness from his teenage years still visible but none of the awkward clumsiness related to the young age was left. He’s definitely taller than John, who was in the lower end of the scale compared to the typical British male. This is emphasised by his proportions - long legs and arms, which had given John the original spidery impression in the bike shop. He has a bunch of black wavy hair, part of it still flattened from being stuffed under the helmet and the rest of it tumbling on his forehead. John is quite sure he hasn’t seen the guy in London earlier, he would have remembered him surely. He looked, well, just as strange as his behaviour was. His milky white skin formed a strong contrast to the dark hair and eyebrows, his nose had a bit funny angle to it and his high cheekbones made him look slightly alien. In the dim light of the living room his eyes looked dark grey, but John was quite sure they had been of a lighter shade in the brightly lit bike shop. And he had the most luscious, pale pink lips John had ever seen. John isn’t quite certain if the young man is good looking or not, but it wasn’t the point, was it, when choosing a flatmate. 

After a while John decides to open the conversation again. “I looked you up on the internet last night”. Sherlock turns and looks mildly curious “Found anything interesting?”   
“Found your website, for the courier service. Is it your own business?”  
“Yes, I find it easier to work on my own. I’ve had a few clashes with managers and colleagues and decided it’s better to be, mm, independent.” He gives John a tentative look “What did you think?”  
“It seems like your clientele is quite, em, specific. None of the usual food delivery stuff then for you, huh?” John tries to joke a little to get the man tell what he actually delivers. He has a strong feeling this bloke would rather starve to death than be seen carrying a Deliveroo box on his back.   
And just so, Sherlock looks mildly disgusted over the idea of carrying someone’s curry, and unsure whether John is joking or not replies just “No, none of that”.  
“How long have you been working in London then? I’m sure I haven’t seen you before and you know how it is with messengers, over time you get to recognise each other by sight at least”.  
Something in Sherlock’s face shifts again and his expression returns to a more closed setting. “Hm. I’ve lived here all my life but the messenger thing is quite new - I started about a year ago. The thing is, though, I’ve always enjoyed cycling and wanted to have a way to make a living of it.” He seems to hesitate whether he should continue or leave it at that ”I .. I had another plan how to do that originally but it, umh, it didn’t work out due to, em, well I mentioned the problems I had with working with others and, yes, that.” the sentence ends so abruptly it seems likely there might me something more to the story. 

John sees Sherlock’s uncomfort and decides against asking for the rest of it. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it, to be honest it kind of feels like the man is trafficking something illegal. Why else wouldn’t he advertise more openly? Usually service providers like this tell their prices and terms and conditions and what not on their page, maybe mention some of their better known clients to get credibility. Surely something was a bit off and John had enough problems already without that kind of things in his life, thank you very much. 

Mrs. Hudson finishes sorting out the mess in the kitchen and returns to the living room. “Alright boys, I’m off then and leave you at it. John, it’s an absolute delight to meet you and I’m so glad Sherlock has someone to look after him. You know how he doesn’t always look after himself..” and so she babbles her way out of the apartment before John has a chance to let her know he has absolutely no intention to look after anyone, hardly even himself.

Silence takes over the small apartment again and this time John doesn’t have anything to fill it with. Sherlock is texting on his phone passionately until after a moment he notices the room has gone all silent. He raises his gaze from the screen and seems to remember there is another person in the room. He takes a breath and then huffs like he’s doing John some kind of a favour “Okay, you’ve got questions”.  
“Yes. Why does the old lady think we would be only needing one bedroom?”   
“I have no idea, she may have had some of her, em, herbal soothers. Next?”  
John decides to bite the bullet: “Your confidential couriering, is it drugs?”

For once Sherlock’s unfathomable face misses its neutral setting and he actually looks taken aback, and his face revealing the surprise doing that seems to jolt him even more, like he isn’t surprised very often. Quickly he recovers, though, and returns to the usual unpenetrable look. 

“No, what, no, I’m not couriering drugs” he lets out, now taking a sharper, inquisitive look at John, “Why.. ah, yes. So I only get the drugs for Mrs. Hudson. No-one else. I mostly carry confidential materials for the government”.   
John doesn’t like it when people think he’s a bit simple. This man seems to think he can just pull his leg any way he wants. “Governments don’t use independent couriers for confidential materials. They have their own people for that.“  
Sherlock nods in agreement “Yes, most of the time that is the case. Sometimes though they need someone more subtle, or sometimes they can’t trust their own people if they think there is a leak somewhere. Or they need someone with a short notice at odd hours and the usual guys aren’t really that flexible with their working times. They need someone clever enough, who has no interest in their affairs, someone they can trust..” he takes a break for dramatic effect which seems a bit practiced to John “..and that someone is me”. 

John doesn’t know if the should believe this or not. At least, even if it was a lie, it was better than the drugs option. John decided to take it as the truth for now, with a big pinch of salt, and to hold the option to change his mind about it later if it proved to be necessary. 

It seems like his thought process was somehow visible to Sherlock as he takes a more relaxed position again. Maybe it was clear, he never was the one to hide his emotions from others

“So we’ve got that sorted then” Sherlock states like ticking boxes off from a list. “Are you asking about how I knew about your accident next?”  
“Why, yes, I was going to ask about it. You still won’t admit Mike saying something about me beforehand?”  
“Nope, he didn’t. I am quite.. Even though I’m not that great with people, I can usually read them quite well. Being a bit of an introvert I tend to observe people rather than engage with them. I find them much more interesting that way. Most of the time the conversations one can have are just boring, mundane, absolutely useless. But just looking at people you can get to know something really worth knowing” he explains.   
“But how did you know it?” John presses  
“Well, let’s see. You came in and mentioned it had changed from your days. So you must have spent quite a lot of time there. Also the way he explained the things to you made it obvious you have a lot of bike knowledge. Hence you must have worked there, before you changed to something.. I don’t know, something more active. You have some old tanlines left, which indicate you’ve spent a lot of time outdoors. You are in good shape, but move awkwardly, so your day job was physical but you have not done it in a while. You came in with a Brompton but the way you were looking at the vintage frames at the back of the shop makes me think you really do love your bikes, so anything keeping you away from riding them must have been serious. You’re not an overly careful person but don’t want to take unnecessary risks - you wear a helmet even when riding the Brompton - so whatever the cause was, must have been caused by something else than your own carelessness. Now, this being London and congestion charges limiting the traffic mostly to professional drivers, it’s more likely to be a professional driver. And from my own experience, most likely a cab or a truck. There.” 

This is the longest piece of speech John had heard Sherlock give so far, and the rapidity of it and the sharply structured thought process takes him by surprise. He spoke eloquently but with a weirdly monotone way, like reading a script. His accent was definitely from around London but not from the same working class parts where John grew up himself. He clicked his k’s at the end of the words and to be honest, none of John’s mates used the word ‘hence’ in spoken language. Probably not in written, either. 

And the things he said, none of them were untrue. “And looking for a flatmate..?” Now John really wants to know the rest of the thought process. 

“That was the easy part. Judging by the blackness of under your nails you still work as a mechanic, which doesn’t pay well. Mike, he doesn’t usually introduce me to people, for whatever reason, but that’s just great because everyone he knows is just tedious. So now that he brought you in, he must have had something in mind. And I had mentioned the flat situation earlier to him, so I just connected the dots.” Sherlock gives a tiny nod to himself like as a mark of having reached the end now. 

Right. John could follow most of the reasoning, especially the part where Mike didn’t bring this guy near his friends. Sherlock looks away and bites his lower lip, like waiting for him to say something. 

John doesn’t know what to say. Or he does, actually. “That ... was amazing.” The words are still spinning in his head and he knows they are true, but he can’t understand how the man put them together. Sherlock looks at him, surprised, and after a pause says “You think so?”  
“Yes, of course it was. Spot on. Quite impressive really!”  
“Oh.” he smiles a little “That’s not what people normally say”  
“What do they normally say, then?”  
“Piss off” Sherlock shrugs.   
John can’t help grinning a little at the other man who now looks very pleased with himself. 

There is yet another pause in the conversation, and while it gets longer Sherlock begins to worry his lower lip again and pace between the coach and the window facing the street. Finally he turns back to John and asks, almost shyly “So, are you moving in?”  
John hesitates. “Can I think about it a bit? I could call you tomorrow and let you know” he suggests.   
Sherlock has his unreadable face on once again. “Sure. I already saved my number to your phone yesterday.”

Of course he did. 

John picks up his bike and descents the stairs gingerly. 

***

In the evening John lies in his bed and does not take all of his painkillers at once. Just the one he needs. 

Around midnight he mutters to himself “Oh, what the hell” and finds the new number in his phone. He sends a text: “Hi Sherlock, thanks for showing me around today. If the offer still holds, I’d like to move in next weekend. -John” 

Less than a minute passes before the reply comes: “Sure. -SH”


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went on a holiday and didn't get back to writing before now. Trying to be more efficient in the future.

There’s not much to pack because John never bothered to unpack properly since his last move - somehow the place at Bow had felt very temporary right from the beginning. 

 

It does however take him some time to think who he should ask to help him move. He has a lot of mates, sure, but he hasn’t been active in social life in ages. He used to see people so much on social rides and alley races and now that he couldn’t go anymore, he had become a bit of a hermit. In the beginning people called and messaged him frequently to ask him go to the pub quiz and parties and shop openings with them but as he never came the calls became rarer and less enthusiastic over time. In the beginning John had felt bitter over how easily they had given up on him, as he felt, but lately he has mostly been just relieved for not having to come up with excuses. 

 

He ends up asking Mike, mostly because he can borrow the bike shop van, but also because he thinks it might be better to ask someone who already knows Sherlock. Luckily Mike is a nice enough chap to let himself being bribed with a promise of beer afterwards. 

 

On the moving day Sherlock isn’t around but Mrs. Hudson shows them around and gives John his keys. John has a nice double bedroom upstairs, the bed is comfy enough and the window is to the back of the building. He doesn’t have that much stuff and they are done with the move way around midday. John treats Mike to a lunch and a few pints at a pub nearby and they talk this and that and it’s not all that bad. 

 

Afterwards John returns to his room and feels nothing. Which is alright. 

 

***

 

The following morning Sherlock returns from wherever he has been just as John descends the stairs groggily. The both of them seem to have forgotten they now live in the same apartment, as they stop in the hallway for half a second, until they remember each other and carry on. 

 

Sherlock looks like he’s been out all night. His face is tired, there are black half moons under his eyes and he looks paler than usual.  _ Has he been partying all night? _ John can’t smell any alcohol in him but that’s not the only substance there is, is it. Definitely he’s not coming from an early training ride, because he’s wearing the same black skinny jeans, super simple harrington style jacket and shoes without cleats he had worn the day John had come to see the flat for the first time. Surely he would have worn something more sporty for a workout. He barely makes the stairs up and leaves his mud-covered bike in the middle of the living room, leaning on the couch, forming a small puddle of water underneath. John doesn’t care because there’s tea to be had. 

 

“I’m making myself some tea, fancy a cuppa?”

“Milk and two sugars” Sherlock replies, and after a pause, as an afterthought adds “Please”.

 

John had popped to the shop last night so now he can just locate the pan and a few cups from one of his unpacked boxes and start frying eggs for himself while the kettle boils. Good thing he went shopping, too, as there wasn’t anything in the cupboards but a pound of sugar and a random selection of tea boxes. Even the fridge was empty par the few things he had brought. 

 

_ So _ , John thinks,  _ the flatmate doesn’t seem to spend much time home. Probably sends all his time with a girlfriend.  _

 

He prepares two cups of tea and yelps to the living room for Sherlock to come get his. He gets his eggs ready, a piece of toast pops out from the toaster and he settles to the table to have his breakfast. The other cup of tea is still on the kitchen counter. 

 

John looks at his eggs longingly but finally gives a resigned huff, grabs the milky, sweet tea and takes it to the living room before it gets cold. The other man has spread himself on the couch, jacket and all still and and is frantically texting on his mobile. Maybe he was texting to whoever he’s spent the night with? It surely takes all his concentration as he doesn’t pay any attention on John until he places the cup on the coffee table with a small clank. “Here you go”.

 

Sherlock looks at John, then at the cup, “Ta”, and his eyes move quickly back to the glaring screen. John returns to his eggs and toast, which are better company anyway.

 

As he’s finishing his meal Sherlock wanders to the kitchen without his cup and stands in the middle looking a little lost, missing something. John raises his eyebrows inquisitively until the other man asks “Did you, erm, you didn’t happen to cook any breakfast for me, too, did you?” John fights the urge to feel guilty of not offering to do that in the first place until he remembers this is his borderline rude flatmate he barely knows, not a dear friend or anything. 

“Well, no, I didn’t. But as you seem to be out of everything, help yourself to the eggs if you want” he offers.

“Great” After a pause he remembers again, “Ta” and snaps the stove on. He stands there while the pan heats up and once it’s ready, breaks two eggs on it. The eggs crackle on the hot oil left from when John fried his just a moment earlier and he gets back to reading the print in the milk jug. The text has been exactly the same for the past five years at least. 

 

Sherlock takes the pan off the gas and slides the eggs on a plate. He seems to contemplate for a moment, standing awkwardly the plate on his hand, but comes to a decision and sits opposite to John. He doesn’t touch his eggs but looks John dead in the eye for a bit too long before opening his mouth, “Tesco Semi-Skimmed Milk. Produced by farmers who share our values. Tesco Farm Pledge: We pay our dedicated farmers a fair price to ensure great quality milk. To find out more visit  [ www.tescomilk.com ](http://www.tescomilk.com) ” he recites. 

John doesn’t have a response to that and Sherlock breaks the eye contact and starts stuffing the eggs on his face. 

 

“So” John starts “you spend a lot of time with your girlfriend then?” The fork stops halfway and an openly puzzled expression takes over the pale face.

“My, err .. who? No I don’t, I don’t have a girlfriend” he splutters, giving an almost disgusted tone over the last word  “That’s not really my ... area.” 

_ Oh. Of course. _

“A boyfriend, then, you spend a lot of time at your boyfriend’s?” Now Sherlock focuses on John’s face, trying to understand what he’s after. “Which is fine, by the way” John continues under the sharp look. 

“I know it’s fine,” Sherlock answers “but I don’t have a boyfriend either”.

“Right. Okay. Good.” John decides not to try any longer with the conversation. The level of awkwardness is high enough already. 

Sherlock keeps looking at him inquisitively “Why do you think I have a  _ special someone _ ?” the last words are dripping with ridicule.

“Well, it’s just that you’ve clearly spent the night and, I assume, most of yesterday somewhere, and you don’t keep any food in here, so I just thought you ate at your, em, partner’s place. That’s all.” John sounds uncertain “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry”. The guy seemed to be quite the private person.

After a pause which he seems to use to think over what John says, he replies “No, that’s okay. But nothing like that, not my thing.”

“Right.” John thinks it’s better to drop the topic from now on. He’d like to ask where Sherlock had been last night then, if not with a  _ non-gender-specific significant other _ , but he doesn’t feel like it’s his place to do so. Instead he takes a carefully careless tone “So, what are you planning to do today then?” he asks.

Sherlock looks surprised the conversation continues “Em, not much, probably just taking a nap and then I have a new bike coming so I’ll sort that out.”

John is happy to get back to a topic they’re both clearly comfortable with “I didn’t know you’re having an NBD, congrats!”

Sherlock replies with another casual “Ta” and the silence takes over the kitchen again. Sherlock keeps munching on his eggs for a few more moments before he seems to realise something and he looks up from his plate with an uncertain expression on his face, like he’s trying to remember his lines in a school play. “So are you.. are you doing anything today?”

“Nah, not really” John replies. “I’m not working until tomorrow so I’ll just, you know, unpack my boxes and get settled. Let me know if you need a hand with the bike though.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, thanks.”


End file.
